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Has she asked about me?

The words sit on my tongue like a bitter pill that’s not dissolving fast enough. I can’t say them, though. I can’t break the professionalism code, even if Ty very obviously knows Maeve and I dated. It’s not his job to get involved in our personal lives. Even though Maeve’s been cold, she’s been professional. The lectures have remained high-quality and office hours have been efficient. Ty’s life, effectively, hasn’t changed since Maeve and I broke up. Which is as it should be.

“I appreciate it,” Ty says. “Maeve does too.”

The words ache in my chest. “You don’t have to placate me.”

Ty doesn’t answer right away. His gaze falls to the desk, to the pass, keys, and ticket. I watch his eyes dart as he processes what he’s seeing. As he looks back up at me.

“Good luck in France,” he finally says.

And just like that, it’s time to go. I have no place in this office anymore. I’ve done everything I can. I force another breath. Cannes. Even my academic colleagues are telling me to focus on Cannes. On my directorial debut, an unabashedly queer film, premiering worldwide and possibly finding a home that will bring it to thousands of theaters across the country and maybe the world. This is huge, this is a lifetime accomplishment, and ready or not, I have to face it. I’m ready to fight for my little movie.

I force a smile. “Thanks.”

It’s time to get out of here. Leave the rest up to Maeve.

“Good luck with your movie too,” Ty says with a smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I’m sure Cannes, France, is gorgeous in May, but I’m not given a single chance to find out for myself. Like, I’m talking airport → car → hotel → car → Cannes social function → hotel → Cannes-adjacent party → hotel for all of Wednesday going into Thursday morning. Whirlwind, sure, exhausting, yes, but god the Klonopin is a fucking miracle drug. I have nerves and butterflies when I take a last look in my hotel room mirror before I head out for my final junket before Oakley’s premiere tomorrow night, but it feels like everything is going exactly the way it needs to go and things are just okay. No, not okay. Honestly, this is fun. I’ve forgotten about the rush I get from all the cameras and the elation of walking down red carpets and laughing my ass off with Mason sneaking pissaladière and wine into our hotel. Suddenly it feels ridiculous and heartbreaking that I was so nervous to be at a festival again. Now I actually feel ready.

Or, well, I would if Maeve were here.

I try not to linger on the pain of Maeve not seeing me this way, happy and shining.

I sit at yet another makeup chair getting touch-ups, this time for Natalie Rockwell, an interviewer who writes for a smaller outlet. Her program is a bit longer, a bit more intellectual, and airs exclusively on a popular YouTube channel. When she reached out to Trish after my Winston interview to say how awful it was that he had treated me that way, I knew I wanted to talk to her someday.

Trish, dressed to the nines in a purple suit, grabs me as soon as I’m mic’d.

“How ya feeling?” she asks me.

I told Trish I had switched to meds out of, like, a concern about health and safety. I dunno, managers like knowing more about your medical history than actual doctors do for liability reasons. Still, I rub the back of my neck, thinking about it.

“Pretty good. Way more mellow than the last premiere. I think the new meds are doing the trick.”

She smiles a genuine smile. “Love to hear it.”

I turn to her, warmth spreading through my chest. “Thanks for poaching me a year ago.”

She pats my hand. “Best decision I made.”

The warmth hasn’t faded yet. My film’s about to premiere at Cannes, and I feel as open and relaxed as I do midway through a therapy session. “I’m sorry for causing you so much stress over the last several months.”

“Your apology is noted.” She smiles again.

“Promise, I know what I want now. I’m not done yet.” I pause, trying not to laugh as Trish eyes me. “But I also appreciate you letting me try something new.”

“I’m a romantic at heart,” she says, giving me a few pats on the shoulder before I’m called out.

Natalie greets me with a handshake. The two of us are sitting in seventies art deco–type chairs in a room with huge windows, no audience in sight. Out beyond us, the cerulean ocean sparkles in the May sun. Natalie gives me a big smile when we sit down.

“You have no idea how excited I am to have you here,” she says, a hint of blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Honestly, I don’t think anyone else would want to talk to me the way you do, so it’s mutual,” I say.

Natalie smiles. “Well, we all know you’re here for Cannes with your directorial debut, and we’ll get to that, but I believe that’s not the only thing you’ve been doing.”